Disaster
by yaygayhooray
Summary: I have always carried with me the expectation that I will have to deal with multiple disasters throughout my life.  Me getting a tattoo was not one I had planned on…nor was getting involved with one Mr. Eames.


I wrote this piece for a prompt provided by eva667 over at LJ for a tattoo kink fest. It's a fun bit of work, so I figured I'd share it over here as well:)

The Prompt was this: 'Arthur is well aware of Eames' many tattoos, but what would Eames think if he saw Arthurs tattoo/tattoos...would his secret be revealed and how would Eames react if it was ?'

Disaster

Inception

Arthur/Eames

NC-17 like woah!

Disclaimer: Inception obviously doesn't belong to me because there is no gay smex involved…

Note about story: This is written from Arthur's POV

Thanks to: Many thanks to eva667 for providing me with such wonderful inspiration. I wrote it, but your one idea is the spark that caused the fire! Also thank you to my beta SundaeMorning, who is always willing to deal with my bullshit.

Often times I find that disaster can be equated to the word 'inevitability'. Seeing as my life seems to be full of disaster I can only assume this to be the truth. I don't know _when_ exactly the designers of fate took an aversion to my person, but it is most assured that they did. Case point 1: Dom Cobb. Why I ever subjected myself to being paired with such an unstable rabble of a man is a constant wonderment of mine. I mean, granted, when we had first met, he was a seemingly uncomplicated man. It wasn't until later on, after our lives had become irrevocably intertwined, that I had discovered the ineptitudes of his life. But Dom Cobb was never the worst of my problems. Case point 2: Mr. Eames—a heinously arrogant man whose constant blathering sometimes makes it nearly impossible to work. But then, if I hadn't let him get under my skin—_and into my bed_—from our first meeting, my relationship with him might be slightly more cordial and less biting. Not that I really believe that of course. His tenacious attitude dogs my steps from sun up to sun down, and ashamedly, I must admit that it is a thrilling experience...as I said, _not_ conducive to a working environment. Case point 3: Myself, more specifically, my inability to reign in my impulsive nature when not on the job. Eames and Cobb would both probably argue that my rather vagrant impetuosity results from a need for my _rigid _and consistently _serious_ nature to break free from its shell. I am rather inclined to disagree with them; however, I cannot ignore the aberration currently curling along my spine.

After our last, and nearly failed, inception of Mr. Fischer's mind, I had been particularly ornery. Walking down the many streets of Los Angeles I had come across a peculiar shop, within which a driveling ragtag team of people were sitting about chatting. Now why I had decided to actually walk _into_ said shop is something I will never understand. Perhaps it was their joyful expressions that seemed to call down upon my dour mood. Or, if I am completely honest with myself, it may have been the fact that the man behind the counter had a delightfully black curl down his arm that so reminded me of Eames that I was driven to step through the front door. Walking in, however, was not my last mistake; in fact, it was the least problematic event of many that happened that day. Looking back on it, I cringe to think about my abysmal choices. I had scanned the many walls of the shop and been instantly drawn to a very striking image of a crow with swirling Celtic patterns encircling it. It was all too apparent (at least to me) that the drawing could only represent one thing: the Morrigan—ancient Celtic goddess of war and fertility. And blast it all, but in that moment I had wanted to take that black cloak of hers and wrap it about myself. Strange as it seems now, I had wanted to _become_ the Morrigan, to be a crow gliding above the masses, watching the chaos people instill in their lives rather than be a part of it. Oh such foolish thinking.

Not that I necessarily _regret_ making the choice to get the tattoo, per-say. I will admit that a secret, albeit a tiny, part of me finds it sort of…_cool_, for lack of a better term. The artist had done an exceptional job of placing it neatly between my shoulder blades, the bottom part of the tattoo swirling down towards my ribcage. And well, he better have, considering that I had sat there for two and a half hours to get the wretched thing done.

It has been exactly one month and twenty-six days since I made the decision to permanently mark my skin with ink. It has been just as long since I last had sex with Eames. Not that I'm counting the days or anything. That would just be ridiculous. In fact, today is the first time I have seen Eames since our last mission. I should have known better than to think that we could escape each other. Even when _attempting_ to avoid one another, Eames and I somehow always end up inevitably shoved back together. I would say that it's maddening, but the fact of the matter is, in my own perverse, twisted way, I _like_ the idiotic man. I guess it does help that he has the best cock I've ever laid eyes on. But who cares about the particulars?

I look up from my desk to watch as Eames steps into my office. It's not a large room, but it is cozy and more importantly _clean_. He throws himself down upon the chair opposing mine and casts his feet onto my desk. I can already feel my eye twitching. His dirty shoes are on my desk. His filthy feet are touching my important documents. "Would you mind removing your feet from my desk?"

The smirk he tosses my way is pure savagery and hell does it make my blood boil and heat flush up my neck. "This position is comfortable, darling."

"Well, that's all well and good, but there are some _shockingly_ important articles on my desk that I would rather not have ruined with mud." I give him a hard look, but it only causes his lips to widen even more. Fuck if it doesn't make want to punch and fuck him at the same time.

"Alright," he says, "I'll be a good boy for you." He places his feet on the floor and leans his elbows on his knees. "So a new job, huh? Cobb not joining us?"

"No," I snipe. "He's taking permanent leave, as it were." Not that it is a particular hardship to be without Cobb for a while; however, I know he'll return to the field sooner or later. Dom Cobb loves doing this work. I don't think he'll ever escape its clutches.

"Ah, I see. Well, it can only be an improvement. If I have to lay eyes on his fucking dead wife, I'll shoot the bitch myself." Eames eyes glisten in the dim lighting of the room. I find myself snorting at the remark because in all honesty, his ire is not arbitrary. Cobb's emotional baggage had cost nearly all of us our lives within Fischer's mind. Even now that knowledge still claws at my mind unpleasantly. What if we _had _failed? What if we had been trapped in limbo? Cobb has gone there and back…twice. But he is already so mentally warped that I really can't help but think he finds some sort of strange thrill from the whole situation.

Clearing my throat, I bring us back to the matter at hand. "Yes, well, I need you to look through these files." I pull out one of the desk drawers and snatch a stack of folders. I place the documents on the desk in front of him. "We leave for the airport in six hours. Be there for the flight, or go buy your own damn ticket."

His blessedly full lips curl into that aggravating—_hot as fuck_—smirk again before he scoops up the folders and goes to stand. "I'll take a look at these and meet you at the airport then. Ciao, darling!" With a quick salute Eames is out the door. The moment I hear the click slide into place, I slump over my desk. Working with Eames again is a bad idea. It's a disastrous one. Him and I do nothing but fight or fuck. That type of relationship can't be conceivably healthy for anyone. Nevertheless, I want the money. I like what I do and I'm not going to decline a job because it requires me to work with a man that I have some sort of bizarre love-hate relationship with. Ugh.

X

I drop my bag on the chair next to the window before hanging up my jacket and toeing off my shoes and socks. I pull my sweater over my head and fold it neatly to place in the dresser next to the bed. Although my outward appearance might make one suspect that I am in a constant state of meticulous dress, I actually much prefer to be in jeans and a t-shirt. Sighing, I throw myself on the bed and try to relax. Honestly, hotels are more of a home than my actual apartment. I contemplate ordering room service before there's a knock on the door. Fuck me. _Eames_. I roll up and head over to the door to let him in. He brushes past me without a word as I shut and lock the door. "What do you want? I'm tired, Mr. Eames."

"Aww, don't be that way. Here," he hands me a glass of liquor and sits on the edge of the bed. His ankles cross and I notice that he's not wearing shoes. Disgusting. He's been gallivanting around the hotel without shoes. But as my eyes scan up those long legs, the lack of feet covering suddenly doesn't seem to be a problem. He is one step closer to being naked, and isn't _that_ something spectacular? I groan and take a sip of the drink. Shit! I sputter and nearly choke on the offensive liquid. Straight scotch is not my cup of tea. Eames _should_ know that particular piece of information. I glance at his face through watery eyes to see him chuckling. Jackass. Just why exactly do I find this oaf of a man attractive again?

Eames sets his glass on the bedside table and in one fell swoop, takes his shirt off. _Oh_, oh yeah. _That's_ why. Gods, those _tattoos_ and those _muscles_…no man should have a body like that; it simply isn't fair to the rest of us who were cursed with lean frames that border on the effeminate. What cruel, twisted god had decided _that_ was a grand idea? My thoughts sizzle to a halt as Eames turns to look at me. His eyes _burn_ as they meet my gaze. "Are you going to get undressed or do I need to do it for you?"

Good Lord, even _hearing _the words makes me hard, the delicious expression on his face just making it worse. I set the glass down shakily on the dresser before I strip off my shirt. I might as well not bother attempting to say, 'no'. Even though I am exhausted, my body will rest-assuredly not allow me sleep now. No matter the time or the place, I never seem to be able to shut down my body's natural reaction to this man. I don't know if it is the accent, or his cruel yet rakish smirk, or even his atrocious choice in clothing that turns me on, all I know is that it does. My infatuation is nothing less than obscene.

I step over to the bed where Eames is now reclined against the covers, propped up on his elbows. His expression is that of the cat who got the crème, the arrogant bastard. I straddle his hips, and grind my erection firmly against his crotch. He closes his eyes and lets out a strangled groan. "Holy mother of _fuck_," he mutters under his breath. I smile and glide my hands up his chest, watching the twitch of his muscles as I explore every single blessed inch. Growling, I lean forward and capture those wonderful lips with my own. Eames hums low in his throat as our tongues duel. It is always like this: challenging, hot, and sweaty. We fuck like we speak—intense and passionate. A moan passes my lips as I feel his large hands run up my spine.

Several moments later, Eames' hand are cupping my ass and rocking me slowly between his thighs whilst my nails are making deep, red marks all over his back and shoulders. I have had enough of the teasing. We need to be naked, right now. I swiftly pull back. Eames growls at the lack of contact, but I don't care what he wants at the moment. I stand up and go for my pants. With swift movements, I unbutton and drop them and my briefs to the ground. Eames' eyes practically _glow_ as the examine me. The look causes a tingle to run down my spine. Oh, how much I want this. After another few seconds, I step to the side to allow him room. "Get up and take those damn things off," I snarl. The amount of time he's taking is simply irritating, not to mention that all of his luscious touching is making me hard enough to fuck through the mattress.

Eames doesn't need asking twice. He stands and moves his hands towards his pants as I crawl onto the center of the bed. I am on my hands and knees when I hear a quick indrawn breath behind me. What? I cast my eyes over my shoulder to find Eames standing there naked, his eyes near to bursting from his head and his mouth hanging open awkwardly. "What?" I ask.

"You—" he chokes.

"Eloquent, Eames, really, but what is it?"

"You got a _tattoo_."

_Oh_…I had honestly forgotten that I even had the blasted thing. Neither of us speaks. My God, this has to be a first. Eames, garrulous man that he is, is _never_ at a loss for words. What is quite amazing, however, is that I discover quite swiftly, that I don't like his silence. It is a hindrance rather than a helpful tool. I much prefer him panting viciously dirty things in my ear. I cock an eyebrow at him to move things along. "Well, are you coming or not?" I stare pointedly at that lovely cock of his, smiling when I see it twitch under my scrutiny. He sucks in a harsh breath and then _moves_. He is wickedly fast and isn't that just delicious? He comes up and leans over me, forcing me to turn my head away from him. "Keep these," he roughly grasps my wrists and squeezes, "planted." I wait with bated breath as he pulls back. Oh God, what is he going to do? What is he going to do? The answer soon provides itself when I feel a gust of breath against my back. His large hands run up my sides and I shudder at it. Eames fingers stop at my ribcage where he squeezes down to hold me still. My heart speeds and I nearly choke on my own gasp. All I can feel is his hot breath on my skin. It's almost as if all sensation is concentrated on that one spot, that one spot where his breath is caressing me. He still hasn't touched me with his lips yet.

As if going on cue, his breath begins to trace my skin, following along the Celtic design. I bite my lip and squirm. He won't touch it. I want him to though, gods do I want him to. "_Please_," I whisper.

I can hear him smirking. Eames lowers his lips just barely, enough that they brush, ever so gently, against my skin. Ungh. This is not _enough_. Without puckering them, Eames rubs his lips over my back, moving along the tattoo in some sensual pattern only he seems to know. As undignified as it is, I whine beneath him, fidgeting against his hands. "_Eames_," I manage to snarl. "Either get on with it, or get out."

He chuckles darkly against my back, sending a shiver through my entire frame. As Eames pushes down upon my ribs to keep me still, he murmurs, "Yes, your majesty." And then, oh god, his lips open against my skin. I feel the first swipe of his tongue and tremble. Eames is apparently fascinated with my new ink, and I am quite content with that. He tongues every inch of the marked skin, starting at the ribcage line and sliding up to my shoulder blades. I whimper and squirm and twitch. That tongue of his is practically _fucking_ my back—moving over the design, sucking, licking, kissing, and _oh_, and biting. He reaches the top of the tattoo and then bites down, pressing my skin between his teeth until I cry out. Releasing my flesh, he kisses my back and whispers, "You are the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen. Why don't we do this more often?"

"I don't know," I groan. We should. We should do this _all_ the time. Every day. Every fucking _hour_.

He growls against my skin and then releases me. "_Don't_ move, Arthur." I nod my head, but he's already gone. The cool air rushes over my heated skin and I shudder, but that only lasts mere moments before he is back behind me. "Spread," he snarls.

I twitch at the word. Upon seeing this, he laughs. "You're a dirty little cock slut, aren't you?" I shudder. Fuck, I love it when he talks like this. I spread my legs further apart without a second thought. Shit! I practically leap off the bed when I feel the first cold finger against my skin. "Did you fucking dip your hand in ice?" I hiss.

He chuckles behind me and says, "You'll just have to warm it up then, won't you?" He shoves his lubed finger into me without another word. _Yesss_. I've wanted this for the last two fucking months; too long to go without. His finger moves within me for only a short bit before he plunges in another. I burn at the intrusion, but it feels too good to pull away. I like it when it burns, when I can feel my body forcing itself to adjust. I shift back against his fingers, pulling them in deeper despite my body's refusal. Eames breath stutters at the movement and I smirk. There are very few things that can drive Eames crazy; this happens to be one of them.

He only manages to last for a second longer before driving in three fingers. Uhn. I drop my head forward, between my hands, not caring that it's lifting my ass right up into his face for scrutiny. It hurts, but it feels so fucking good. I try not to move as I let him stretch me out. As much as I enjoy a bit of pain, Eames' wonderfully full cock is not going to be able to get in if I don't do this. Shockingly in control—congrats my good sir—Eames manages to stave himself off long enough for me to grow accustomed to the stretching of the three digits. I start to move roughly back against him, giving my body the heavenly pain and pleasure that it craves. My movements grow to be too much for Eames, for he snarls and pulls out his fingers. He lines himself up behind me and without so much as a 'by your leave' he shoves himself in.

"_Chirst_," I choke. I dig my hands into the comforter and try to relax. Fucking hell, this hurts. Eames lips kiss along my spine as he waits. Come on. Let go, Arthur. _Relax_. After several more deep breaths and a good stern internal talking to, my muscles finally release their initial fight. "_Go_," I snap.

Eames doesn't wait for another moment. He pulls back torturously slow before slamming forward. I scream out at the sensation. Oh God. Eames' movements are anything but gentle as per usual. Fast, harsh, and furious, he practically pounds me against the headboard. With the minimal movement I am allowed, I push back against him with continual pants and cries, my hands grabbing at the blankets. I don't know what noises are coming out of my mouth, whether they are merely grunts and screams or whether they are actually some form of articulate language; but either way, I don't know or care.

Eames' fingers are bruising my hips as he uses my body for his own leverage. Apparently not completely satisfied, he takes one hand off my side and uses it to shove me further into the mattress. The movement, fortunately for me, changes the angle of his thrusts. Oh FUCK! I gurgle some unintelligible sound as my eyes snap closed and my body bucks. The prostrate is surely God's gift to mankind or else it wouldn't feel like this; it wouldn't be able to bring me to orgasm without so much as a hand being laid upon my shaft. With a ragged scream, I buck and contort against Eames as I come across the mattress. Eames grunts against me at the feeling, but I could care less about that. He is still hitting my prostrate in a torturous rhythm that makes me want to sob. Sweet Jesus.

Even after my body's shudders come to a slow halt, Eames still moves. Somehow—bless his stamina—he is able to carry on for several more thrusts before he spasms within me. When his body stops moving, the clumsy lout collapses on top of me instead of rolling to the side. Well, there goes any chance of me getting into a comfortable position. I lay there, barely being able to breathe as I feel cum dry on my stomach. _Gross_. "Eames," I whisper against the bed. _Please let me breath_!

He groans, but manages to gather himself and roll off me. "Christ. That was—"

"Fucking amazing?" I chuckle as I turn towards him. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm a wretched cuddler. Completely opposing to my exterior I well know, but I love the feeling of another's skin against mine as our heated flesh cools from our high. I love hearing the steady beat of another's heart beneath my ear. It is comforting and relaxing. Nothing I have ever experienced in my life has ever been comparable to the feeling.

Eames rolls onto his side and throws an arm around my waist to pull me closer. "Yes," he smirks at me. "Bloody fucking brilliant." I fit in perfectly against his body and isn't that a scary thought? "You know," he murmurs. "I think we should do this more often."

I stiffen immediately. "_Eames_," I warn.

"Arthur, I am completely serious. Don't ruin this moment with your ridiculous pessimism for once. You can't tell me that you've never thought about it." He strokes his hand down my side as he's done numerous times before. Not for the first time, I have to wonder if it's a conscious motion or not.

"I don't know what you mean," I sniff. I will continue to remain obstinate about this subject matter until he lays everything out for me plain and simple. The vague innuendos and assumptions aren't going to cut it for me this time. Not when it comes to something like this.

He growls softly, but in such a way that I know he's not peeved, merely anxious. "Of course you don't. You can't tell me you haven't thought about being exclusive."

I choke. _Us_? _Exclusive_? The world is coming to an end. Eames, the playboy wonder, is talking about exclusiveness as if it is an actual thing he would consider. "You mean as in _dating_?"

He lets out a deep throaty laugh, which trembles down my body. "Thank you for that clarification, Arthur, we were really in need of someone to make sense of the word 'exclusive'."

"Your lack of seriousness is not helping your cause," I mutter. He can't be serious. This would never work. We fight, we bicker, hell, we even throw the occasional punch at each other. How that can possibly correlate into us being a suitable couple is beyond me.

"Arthur, you may not realize it sometimes, but I do genuinely _like_ you. If I didn't, I wouldn't fuck around with you. And just try to lay there and tell me that you don't feel something, anything at all."

I fidget against his body because damn it, deep down, in my own freakish, unreasonable way, I _do _have feelings for him. I scowl. This wasn't how this conversation was supposed to go. In fact, it wasn't supposed to happen at all. But even worse than that, I can't stop my heart from racing at the idea. To have Eames all to myself: to be able to fuck him and hold him and snipe at him whenever I want. Good Lord, please let me see reason! This can't possibly be a good idea! "_Arthur_," Eames prods.

I sigh. Fuck. I still haven't replied to his challenge yet. Can I honestly deny that I feel nothing? Truthfully? The answer to that, damn it, is 'not particularly'. "I can't."

His lips curl into a wonderfully bright smile. "Soo, we are both full grown adults, whose sex life is phenomenal and who both have feelings for each other, and yet we can't try to date _because_…"

"Shut up," I grumble. "This isn't a good idea. We argue more than we talk sensibly. And—"

"And that's a problem, why? If I weren't around, your life would be egregiously boring. And I mean that in a very caring way."

When I lift my head to show him my displeased frown, I find that he is amused. For a reason I cannot fathom, my lips turn up into a matching grin. Damn you Eames. I am supposed to the rational one here! I let out a great sigh. Fuck me. "Alright, fine. But if this doesn't work out, don't complain to me about it."

"Deal."

I look into his smiling face, and most unusually, I find a chuckle bubbling up inside of me. With barely a moment's hesitation, full-blown laughter is spilling out of me and I cannot stop. Eames and I are dating. _Eames_, my annoying, obnoxious, pain in the ass, sometimes partner, is now my boyfriend. For the very first time since we've met, my evening with Eames hasn't ended in disaster. And isn't that a wonderful thing?


End file.
